


breathe me

by Sylv



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-17
Updated: 2014-09-17
Packaged: 2018-02-17 17:55:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,579
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2318198
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sylv/pseuds/Sylv
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Allison,” he breathes, and feels more than hears her hum of response. “I dreamed you died.”</p><p>[Stiles copes the only way he knows how. Allison tries to help, even when she can't reach him.]</p>
            </blockquote>





	breathe me

**Author's Note:**

  * For [inaflash](https://archiveofourown.org/users/inaflash/gifts).



When Stiles wakes up with a start, the first thing he notices is that there are fingertips tracing his cheekbones.

The second thing he notices is the wetness streaking across his skin. He blinks, concentrates on the fingers wiping, and feels a hot puff of air burst across his face. He focuses, despite being sleep-drunk with blurry eyesight, and sees the outline of a sharp jawline, soft brown curls. He exhales, allowing his eyes to flutter shut again.

“Allison,” he breathes, and feels more than hears her hum of response. “I dreamed you died.”

Sleep reaches up in warm waves and drags him underneath again, slowly, sweetly. Allison cups his face in her hands and moves in close enough that he can feel the heat radiating from her body. He sighs, and while she holds him in her arms he dreams of nothing.

;;

His father had been pleasantly surprised when he’d said he was going for a hike in the late afternoon. He’s heard what people say about him (or maybe he hasn’t heard, but he knows) and this would be considered a ‘healthy step towards healed’ or something like that.

Stiles likes being outside. It’s easier to hear her when he’s alone.

The wind tugs on his jacket playfully as he walks. He doesn’t know these trails very well—he never was much of a hiker—but he knows that _she_ knows her way around, and so he wanders. He follows some winding paths, trudges up a hill, and the trees suddenly clear to reveal Beacon Hills spread out underneath him. It looks so peaceful and quiet from here, and Stiles folds his legs underneath him, squinting to make out his house, Scott’s house, the school.

“Stiles.”

Goosebumps appear on his skin instantly, all his hackles raised, but his heart warms and a smile curls his lips and he pats the patch of grass next to him. “Sit.”

She does so, gracefully settling with her legs to one side, hands resting demurely on her thighs. Stiles untangles his fingers and grips his knees tightly.

Allison sucks in a deep breath through her teeth, but Stiles jumps on her sentence before she can manage to get a single syllable out: “I miss you.”

Her shoulders slump, and he can see the fingers of her left hand twitch out of his periphery. “I miss you too, Stiles.” A pause. “How is everyone?”

So he tells her. How Scott still tries to be his effervescent self, how he is always everyone else’s hero despite the frequent moments of total hollowness. How Lydia won’t let anyone really see, but her guilt is eating her up inside, how she leaves flowers on Allison’s grave twice a week and sits and tells her how her studies are coming, and the newest clothes she’s bought. How her father has barely been seen, and when he is, his eyes are dead, his face gaunt.

How they really, really wish she were with them.

He doesn’t look at her when he’s finished speaking—she might disappear (god, what if she _disappears_ ), but he can hear the slight sniffle and remembers exactly what tears glistening in those brown eyes look like. A lump rises to his throat.

“Sorry.”

Her laugh is wet. “Don’t be sorry. I asked.”

They sit in silence for a time, listening to the rustle of the leaves and the chirping of the cicadas. The shadows creep over the town slowly, reds and oranges and deep maroons staining the houses and streets below. His hand drifts over to hers, and as the sun sets beneath the horizon, he grasps her hand gently. She doesn’t move away.

“Allison…” he swallows and screws his eyes shut because he shouldn’t be asking this question but he has to know. “How are you here?”

Her words taste bittersweet when she answers.

“Because you miss me.”

;;

“Allison,” Stiles calls out, chin resting in his hand, eyes stinging from staring at a screen for far too long. There is no chill in the room, so he drags his vision away from the words upon words upon words, and gives a quick glance in the corners.

He frowns. “ _Allison_.”

She’s sitting on his bed when his gaze flicks back that way, and he immediately averts his eyes because—because—well.

“Took you long enough,” he says lightly, grinning back at his computer screen. “I need someone to tell me to get some sleep or something. I’m pretty sure I’ve been doing research for more than six hours, and I don’t think I’ve eaten anything. Couldn’t tell you for sure though.”

She doesn’t laugh, and his stomach swoops, but he keeps scrolling.

“Don’t you have Scott and Lydia for that?” Her voice is sharp, like the knives that she used to be so good at handling, like the arrows that used to find their mark every single time without fail, and Stiles feels like he has just been speared through.

(It feels a little bit good. Like maybe he’s finally receiving some punishment. He still flinches though, and he hates himself for it.)

“Scott and Lydia aren’t here. You are.”

The words vibrate between them like a plucked string, and Stiles watches her in the reflection of the computer screen even though it’s cheating, because he needs to see her, wishes that he could trust himself to really see her. Wonders if she’d actually be there at all.

That thought terrifies him, and his eyes slam shut.

“Stiles, it’s been a month.” Allison’s voice is gentle, but she twists the spear protruding from his back and he doesn’t want her to see the weakness because he doesn’t deserve it. And he wouldn’t deserve the comfort she’s sure to offer if he lets the prickling feeling in his eyes spread.

“And? We’re supposed to stop missing you after a month?”

Her sigh would sound exasperated if he knew her even slightly less well. “Are you going to try and sleep then?”

Stiles shakes his head. “No. Sleep is for the weak.”

_(I hate how I dream.)_

_(You’re in them.)_

When he peeks, he can see her arms outstretched to him in the reflection, pulling him in to her. Like he has a choice, like she doesn’t have control over him like freaking gravity. Stiles shuffles to the bed, eyes fixed on the floor, and allows himself to be pulled back down on top of the covers. He nuzzles into her neck because she still smells like spice, and she drops a feather light kiss to the top of his head.

“You should sleep,” she insists, a whisper right in his ear. “When you wake up, maybe you can call Scott and go see a movie.”

“Or maybe you and I can go see a movie,” Stiles counters, eyelids already drooping. Her body is warm. “I saw a trailer for one yesterday that I knew you would love.”

Allison’s arms tighten around him fractionally, and he likes how it feels to have her wrapped around him, like he’s somehow safe, from everything that still lurks in the shadows of Beacon Hills, from the things in his head that come out to play when he sleeps—

His body jolts and he tries to sit up, eyes wide and jumping to and fro, heart hammering because god, he almost just fell asleep, but Allison’s body bears down on him, chest to chest until his heart slows to match hers.

“No Stiles. _Sleep_.”

He is helpless to resist her.

;;

It’s the sunlight streaming through his open windows that brings him back to consciousness. He’s cold, even though he is huddled under layers of blankets; he doesn’t even bother trying not to miss her comforting weight at his back.

It takes him a few minutes to realize what he’s looking at on his bedside table, as he stares off into space, but when he does it’s like an ice cube has slipped down his throat into his stomach. Stiles practically leaps out of bed, and thunders down the stairs, barreling into the kitchen to be met with the wide-eyed, if totally unsurprised stare of his father.

“You’re energetic this morning,” he comments, folding his newspaper in half, the better to hold it.

“What are these?” Stiles shakes the bottle, and the pills clack noisily. He hopes they’re crumbling.

“Stiles…” he begins, tone obviously meant to be placating, but he doesn’t want to hear this, he doesn’t want to hear the well thought out explanation, the emotional reasoning behind why his anxiety medication has suddenly appeared on his beside table again.

“What the hell, Dad?”

“I heard you last night.”

Suddenly it’s hard to breathe, someone has wrapped their hands around his heart and is squeezing, hard, and (it might be Allison, he would deserve it if it was Allison) he opens the bottle with shaking hands, finding a glass of water at the ready and his father standing in front of him with his brow wrinkled.

“Please keep them.”

Stiles swallows down the pill somehow and focuses on counting his breaths, in and out, in and out, until he has the muscle control to spin on his heel and march out of the kitchen. The further he gets, the easier the air fills his lungs.

He’s just opening the front door, bottle still clutched between his fingers, when he hears his father call out to him.

“We should have dinner tonight. We can talk about… whatever you want.”

He sounds so broken, so lost and confused and scared and pained and Stiles hates it, he hates it because he can’t fix it, because fixing it would mean saying goodbye and he _can’t_ , he can’t he can’t he can’t—

A deep breath behind him. “She’s gone, Stiles. You know that, right?”

He slams the door on his way out.

;;

“Allison,” he calls, voice a hoarse croak. The light of his laptop screen glints dully across his pale skin, and even he can see that it’s stretched too tightly over bones. He sits wrapped in shadows—and those layers of blankets—and waits for her to come.

She doesn’t resist him, appearing instantly, and he reaches out to her with spindly fingers. Hesitation flits across her features before she interlaces their fingers and allows him to pull her into his chest.

“Where’s your dad?” she whispers into the fabric of his shirt. He strains his neck to try and catch her eyes, but she purposefully turns from him, nuzzling into him and inhaling deeply.

“Downstairs. I don’t want to see him right now.”

He can actually feel her tremble, ever so slightly. _(God, I’m so sorry.)_

“I think you would feel better if you did.”

Stiles is saved from having to respond to that when his phone buzzes, harsh against his thigh through his pocket. He fishes it out and glances at the screen before turning it off and tossing it to the floor unceremoniously.

“Who was it?”

He shrugs. “Scott. Again.”

Allison does pull back to meet his gaze now, and it's fierce. “He’s worried about you. They’re all worried about you, Stiles.”

He grits his teeth and huddles down into the blankets, wrapping them around her too. “They can mind their own business. I’ll let them know if I need their help.”

“You’re talking about your best friend and your dad. Wake up, Stiles! _I’m dead_.”

Something snaps in him and he’s sure that his nails are digging into the flesh of her arm but he can’t see anything, can’t hear anything, can’t feel anything except the sick nausea building in his gut because she’s right, and he knows it but he refuses to know it because it’s all his fault and he misses her and he needs her; she’s Allison.

“Don’t say that,” he gasps out, entire body shivering. “Don’t say that to me.”

“Stiles—“

“ _No!_ You’re here, I can see you and hear you and touch you.”

She blinks up at him, and he could drown in those eyes, he really could, even when they’re soft and shining with pity. “But no one else can. They love you, they’re just trying to help, they want you to accept what happened. I want you to accept what happened too.”

He shakes his head and ignores that last part. “They’re trying to take you away from me. I won’t let them, Allison.”

He can feel her stiffen and he knows what’s coming next because when Allison straightens her spine like that she’s made up her mind, but he knows how to be stubborn too, and—

“I’m leaving.”

“You can’t leave.”

“I’m leaving, Stiles. Call Scott. Go sit with your dad. Eat some food, get some sleep for god’s sake,” she thumbs at the circles under his eyes, and starts to pull away. “Live. Please. For me.”

“No.”

He’s stubborn too.

“No.”

He misses her.

“I’m leaving now.”

“No!”

He needs her.

She shakes her head, and squeezes her eyes shut, and he tugs on her shirt and pulls at her hand even though he knows that if she wants to disappear she will and no grip will keep her here, and so he chokes, cries out with a breaking voice because he won’t stand losing her again.

_“You can’t leave me!”_

Allison’s eyes fly open and she stares at him. His heart is pounding and his thoughts have fizzled because she’s still here and that doesn’t make sense.

“Let me go.”

His eyes widen. His heart slows. He licks his cracked lips. “No.”

“Stiles, let me go right now.”

He hates himself, but he needs her more than even that. “No, I won’t.”

“You’re killing yourself,” she whispers, body limp as he gently settles her back against him.

“Shhh,” he mouths into her hair, fingers running up and down the arm he’s surely bruised. “Let’s watch a movie, ok?”

They do. Allison is silent, and Stiles pretends that she wants to be here with him, too.

;;

His dad says his name.

At least, he thinks he does. It’s hard to tell when there is a rushing in his ears, and his stomach is trying to claw its way out of his body. He thinks it might be because he doesn’t eat anymore, but it’s hard to remember anything further back than yesterday.

The vague outlines of Scott and Lydia are there, he can see. They simmer in his eyesight, and he smiles because he’s always known that they glowed. Like sunlight.

There’s a low, comforting rumble of voices, and he finds that he likes it like this, able to hear cadence but no words, glazed eyes fixing on one person after another as they continue on.

His whole body hurts. He tries to ignore it.

_(“… Stiles…”)_

His skin prickles.

_(“… Allison…”)_

Oh, yes. He likes that word. He shudders violently, and grins. There’s a pause in the distant conversation before it goes up a notch, high-pitched and faster. His pulse stutters, but he doesn’t dare look around. Not when they’re right here with him.

The phantom of a touch drags across the back of his shoulders and he grinds his teeth together to keep from reaching out to her. She would probably move away from him anyway.

(Good—no, but—good.)

_(“Stiles, are you listening?”)_

She’s breathing right next to his ear, and he tries to share her air if he can; in when she breathes out, out when she breathes in.

She breathes, and it sounds like a lullaby.


End file.
